


A real life adventure worth more than pieces of gold

by loveinadoorway



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Age of Consent, F/M, First Kiss, First Time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveinadoorway/pseuds/loveinadoorway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom's 16th birthday sucks, until he decides to sneak out of school and go to a pub in search of his first kiss.<br/>Fluff and a happy ending.<br/>MIGHT get continued. Not making any promises, though.</p><p>My first ever RPF - and I had sworn myself I would never go there. Dammit.</p><p>WARNING: Tom's under the age of maturity, but has reached the age of consent (so I haven't labelled it as UNDERAGE). If that, however, is not your cuppa, please don't read.</p><p>Title and lyrics quote from David Bowie, Teenage Wildlife. Snippets of Keats, cummings and Byron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She sat in the far corner of the Watermans Arms' main room, nursing a drink. 

He had noticed her right away, first the elaborate Asian tattoo on her right arm, then the rest of her body, then her face.

Was that wrong? It probably was. Not the order in which one should take notice of a lady. Did that make him a bad guy? He didn't want to be a bad guy. Well, maybe a little bit, what with sneaking out of school and going to a pub and all.

Damn, maybe he should have walked across the river and into Windsor to find a pub, not stayed here in Eton, where somebody might see him. But if he had, he wouldn't have found HER. Maybe it was going to turn out okay. None of the teachers ever came here, not that he knew of. Maybe he’d not get caught and…

Tom wasn’t really good at playing truant. No, not really. He usually got caught. He had lied through his teeth to the barman about his age and was now holding a pint of lager in his hands, trying to look like he belonged here.  He didn’t really like beer, but it was a special occasion and if he’d end up grounded or worse, it had better be worth it.

He had tried leaning nonchalantly against the bar, but she hadn't looked over, not even once. So he was now slowly inching closer to where she was sitting. He took a big gulp of beer. Dutch courage. But then maybe she'd hate that he smelled of alcohol. Shit, this was so much more difficult than he had thought.

He couldn't look away. She wasn't all that much older than he was, he thought. Maybe twenty? And she was gorgeous. Curvy. Different. The longer he looked, the more he was determined to get what he had come here for. A kiss. THE kiss. The first ever kiss. And he wanted it to be her.

How did one start a conversation with a girl? Not something they taught at school. Hadn't ever been a problem with his sisters' friends, but then again, he had wanted nothing from those girls, anyhow. Poetry might work. Girls liked poetry, didn't they?  
Another sip of beer, a deep breath and here we go...

"To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears  
A smile of such delight,  
As brilliant and as bright,  
As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes,  
Lost in soft amaze,  
I gaze, I gaze!"

Helen had had the day from hell.  
She'd been hired for some promo shots of the up and coming next big thing in rock music and the guy had been a pest. But at twenty-one and being still at the beginning of her career as a photographer, there hadn't been much she'd been able do about it. The worst bit had been when the odious dick had tried to grope her. It had taken all her willpower not to punch him in his smug face, but had she done it, that would've been her first AND last big shoot.

All she wanted was to be left alone with her gin and tonic. But no...  
She turned to the young man who had suddenly started spouting poetry, a small, sarcastic smile on her lips, ready to demolish him utterly for daring to come on to her - and with a poet she hated, no less. But then she realized the boy was younger than she had thought, incredibly nervous to boot and sarcasm might be the wrong course of action.

"Darling, of all the poets you could have picked, Piss-a-bed Keats was the worst choice ever, if you wanted to impress me," she merely said mildly, before turning back to her drink.

Tom swallowed hard, nodded mutely and withdrew into the shadows in the corner. Damn, that had gone beyond badly. Why on earth had he picked Keats? He should've maybe tried Shakespeare. Or would she have preferred Shelley?

And oh my God, her eyes. A deep midnight blue, darker than cornflowers and utterly mesmerising. Before, he had just had a fluttery feeling in the pit of his stomach looking at her. But those eyes cut right into his soul. He felt slightly disoriented.

She was calmly sipping her drink. Tom couldn't help but stare at her lips as she swallowed.  
She hadn't really been mean or snappish, had she now? Maybe he should have just said something. Reacted, somehow. Made a joke of it? He just didn't know. Anything but slinking away like a whipped dog would've been fine, really.

He finished his pint, set the glass aside and went back to his previous spot near her table. Not too close, so she wouldn't feel crowded. Wouldn't do to behave like a total tit. He nervously licked his lips and ran his hand over his mouth and across his throat. That seemed to catch her attention.

"Wh... which poet would I have stood a chance with?" he said and hated himself for sounding so uncertain.

You had to hand it to the kid, he had guts, coming back after that initial setback. The boy was kind of cute, too, with his unruly blond hair. You could see he hadn't quite grown into himself just yet. He was all loose limbs and too big hands and feet, all smiles and very little coordination, like a puppy after a growth spurt.

"Well, let's see. Byron. Auden. Donne. Shakespeare. Cummings. Any of those would've been fine by me," Helen said with a smile and a nod.

He looked at her, crestfallen.  
Probably at least one of the names on her list had been on his, too and he was berating himself that he had chosen Keats instead, Helen thought. Poor baby.

The kid nodded and thanked her politely, then turned to walk back into his dark corner again.

Helen sighed. She probably shouldn't. Not really. But there was something about him...

She said gently: "But if you seriously want to impress a woman, it's always better to use your own words. And by that I don't mean a cheesy pick-up line, I mean a genuine, honest expression of what it is that made you want to talk to the woman in question. So. Why did you want to talk to me just now?"

Tom stopped, then turned around. His heart threatened to leap from his throat.

"I first noticed the tattoo. It's.. fascinating. And then, when you looked at me, I felt like I was drowning in your eyes. They're stunningly beautiful. I don't think I've ever seen eyes like the sky at midnight before," he said quietly, almost reverently.

And right there, Helen thought, we have a glimpse of the man he might grow into. Sincere, focused, polite, nice. She liked the way he had never come so close as to make her uncomfortable. She liked how he was quiet and a little shy. She liked how he wasn't making any assumptions. So maybe she should at least talk to the boy, tell him a thing or two he might put to good use later.

"Well, congratulations, that at least buys you a place at my table," Helen said with a smile and a wink, motioning for him to sit down beside her.

Tom's heart was beating even faster as he slid into the booth. Maybe this wouldn't be the saddest, stupidest birthday ever after all. Even if he didn't get the kiss he'd been after, he was having an honest to God conversation with a grown woman. About flirting. In a pub.

He felt a little dizzy, whether it was from the beer or the nearness of her, he couldn't tell. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a confident manner. His right hand was running up and down his thigh - something he couldn't really control. It happened when he was nervous or trying to focus on something. Right now, he was both nervous and trying very hard to focus on what she was saying.

"I'm Helen, by the way."

"T-Tom," he said, holding out his hand.

She shook it, her grip warm and firm, sending a little jolt through his body, like an electrical current.

"How old are you, Tom?"

"Eighteen."

Got that out without a stammer. Good.

Helen smiled again. Cute. She shook her head.

"I'm not the bartender, who actually should know better than to sell you booze. I'm a photographer, Tom. I know faces. I see you."

He looked back at her and swallowed hard.

"So, Tom. How old are you? Really."

"S-sixteen. T-today."

"Well, well.. happy birthday, Tom!"

"Thank you. I'm not a liar, not usually. It's just, I, I thought you'd dismiss me out of hand if I said sixteen."

Helen's smile deepened. Not a liar, eh? A good little boy, was he? And yet, here he was, on his sixteenth birthday, in a pub, drinking and chatting up a stranger. That told a slightly different story.

"Not necessarily. I figured you might need some pointers on how to chat up a girl, so... your age doesn't really matter much. This is an educational endeavour, so to speak."

That didn't sound half bad, did it now? Tom pondered how far such an educational endeavour might venture.

"You know, my birthday was pretty shi... bad so far. I didn't get permission to go see my family. Didn't even get permission to leave school, truth be told. And after your comeback, I thought I might as well go back there and face the music for sneaking out right away. Nothing nice was going to happen and my birthday wish was certainly not going to be fulfilled," Tom said, quickly, almost stumbling over the words.

She had said genuine, honest expressions, hadn’t she? Well, he’d spilled his guts in front of her, metaphorically speaking.  
Helen smiled at him again and his heart jumped in his chest. There was a maybe in that smile, he thought. Maybe….

"What's your big birthday wish, then?"

Should he tell her? How would she react? Worst case scenario, she might laugh at him and send him away. Best case scenario, she'd probably let him down gently.  
But as Churchill had said, success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts.  
Deep breath, Thomas.

"A kiss. I... I just wanted to be kissed."

"Your first?" Helen enquired gently.

At least she was not laughing at him, thank God.

"You probably think I'm pathetic," Tom whispered, looking intently at his hands.

Stupid, ugly, freakishly huge hands, Patsy Miller had said last year, shuddering and turning away from him like he was something that had just crawled out from under a rock. He'd never asked another girl to go out with him since.

Helen reached across and took his hand in hers. He'd grow up into a handsome man, but it probably took a trained eye to spot the potential underneath all that puppy-dog awkwardness at this point. From the look on his face, he'd crashed and burned badly with some girl.

Oh boy.  
It felt like his entire body and mind were focused completely and utterly on his hand now. The one she was holding in hers. His blood rushed South. He couldn't hear the other people in the pub anymore, he didn't notice anything except the warmth of her skin and how her hand felt against his.

He looked into her eyes, expecting to see ridicule, or even worse, pity there, but there was just understanding and a half smile. She had the loveliest smile. It was only when she laughed and thanked him for the compliment that he realised he had said it out loud.

He hoped she wouldn't notice that he was hard. How utterly embarrassing. Please, please, please, don't let her notice. She had started to stroke his hand with her thumb as she was holding it and it should not be something he found so frighteningly and ludicrously erotic, but it was.

His brain was threatening to explode with random snippets from love poems, but after what she’d said, further attempts at quoting other people’s words at her should be avoided. So Tom struggled to stay focused on the here and now. How did people do this? Sit next to someone they fancied like mad and keep their wits about them?

God, please don't let her notice his boner.

Helen tried very hard not to smile as she watched him fidget ever so slightly. She could clearly see from the way his dress pants were tenting why he was getting a little... restless... and found it strangely endearing that Tom would get aroused by something as little as his hand being held. But she recalled very clearly how awkwardly hormonal she had been at his age and kept her mouth firmly shut.

He had started to talk about rugby now, nervously, a little disjointedly and obviously at a loss what to do next. He played, he said. Enjoyed it. Hard to believe, coming from a kid who could quote poetry.  Maybe he wanted to seem tough and manly, but he failed miserably. He kept looking at Helen with a mix of adoration and helplessness. It was utterly sweet.

Now, a sane, well-adjusted woman would just ignore that little tug at her heartstrings. There would still be plenty of time for the boy to get his first kiss. But... apparently, Helen was a lot less well-adjusted than she had thought. He was a lovely boy and he deserved something special for his birthday.

"Tom," she began, then stopped, uncertain as to how to put matters into words.

He looked at her expectantly. When she didn't immediately continue, the expectation turned into apprehension.

"I'll tell you what we do, Tom. You will leave now."

His face fell.

"You'll go out back and wait for me in front of the College Boathouse. Give me a few minutes, okay?"

"Wh.. what happens then?"

"Then? Why, you'll get your birthday present, of course," Helen said with a smile.

Oh God, could she really mean...? Tom swallowed hard, nodded, got up hastily, grabbed his jacket and left.

 The barman grinned at Helen and winked. Probably thought she had given Tom his marching orders, just as she had intended. Didn't matter what he thought, anyhow. She was going to get a sweet little kiss from a sweet little boy. Propriety be damned.  
Helen leaned back and finished her drink.

\---

A dog was barking somewhere in the distance, but that was the only sign of life.  
He was fidgeting, half because of the cold and half from excitement.  
The old streetlight was painting a weak puddle of light in front of the boathouse, but Tom had chosen a spot in the dark. He was beyond excited.

She was going to kiss him.

He wondered if her lips would be as soft as they looked.

He wasn't going to tell anyone about this. Not a soul. He hated it when the other guys at school bragged about their conquests. He couldn't understand why they had to talk about girls like that. This kiss would remain a secret. And that way, it would be his and his alone. Something to treasure.

It seemed like a long time had passed... No sign of her. Where was she? What if she had changed her mind? How long had it been? Was she having a good laugh at his expense? She had looked so sincere.  
Please, please, please let her come.

He licked his lips. Were they chapped? It would probably feel unpleasant for her if they were. He should've thought of that and should've taken precautions. He rummaged through his pockets with shaking hands. A handkerchief, some loose change, a paper clip and some very suspicious looking mints. No chap stick. Shit.

Finally, he could hear footsteps. Tom was flooded with relief when he saw Helen walk around the corner of the pub and towards him. She stopped right in front of him, smiling.

"There you are! Everything alright, Tom?"

"Yes. Just... nervous."

He looked at her pleadingly. Helen reached out to him and rubbed his arm in what she hoped to be a reassuring manner. The poor boy was so beyond nervous, even worse than he had been when he had first approached her.

"Don't be. It's not rocket science, sweetheart. Your lips on my lips... et voilà!"

She pulled him towards her and then her lips were on his.  
God, he was not ready, he was doing this all wrong, he was terrified, he was... It felt amazing. Her lips were soft, even softer than he had imagined, yet somehow firm at the same time. Heat was rushing through his veins. He was pushing back a little now, a small whimpering noise escaping from him, wordlessly begging for more contact.

His arms were around her all of a sudden and his hands were running up and down her back. Her hand was on his neck, urging him closer, her thumb caressing his pulse there. Then her tongue slid across his lower lip, pushing inwards, enticing him to open his mouth. It was almost too much.

He opened up and then her tongue was in there... and … finally his brain just shut up and his body took over. Feeling, enjoying, memorising, exploring. It was magical. His erection was pressing against her body and he couldn't help rocking himself into her, craving friction, adding to the melee of sensations until it became nearly unbearable.

When she let go of him, he felt strangely bereft. Alone, incomplete. His breath was coming in uneven gasps. That had been... unbelievable. So much better than he had ever imagined it would be. Had that been alright for her? How could he tell?

Her hand was on his chest, almost as if she needed to hold on to him to keep her balance. She was looking down. Why was she looking down? Had he been so bad that she didn't even want to look at him anymore?

"W.. was that okay? Helen? I... I'm so sorry! If.. if you.. if you'd let me try again, I'm sure I could do better?"

She looked at him weirdly for a second, then laughed.

"Tom, you did brilliantly, especially given that it was your first time. I'm actually quite... hm... shall we say I'm happy with your performance?"

Truth be told, she had a hard time standing upright. She hadn't expected it to be this hot.  
She caressed his cheek, still smiling brightly at him. What a sweet boy he was. So eager to please, trying so hard to get it right. And boy, had he ever gotten it right at first try. The kid was a natural!

He looked at her intently, as if to see if she was serious. Then the anxiety finally left his face. He raised his hand to cup her cheek and gently ran his thumb over her lower lip.

"May I do it again, then, because you liked it?" he asked softly.

"May I feel, said he..." She laughed again. "Yes, please do."

"Was that a quote?"

"Yes, ee cummings."

Tom raised an eyebrow.

"Sometimes, quotes are allowed," said Helen, then slanted her mouth across his once more.

When they came up for air a little while later, Helen had made up her mind. She probably ought to be ashamed of herself, but a little voice inside of her insisted she had to be his first. Not just his first kiss, his first everything. She wanted to be the first person to see his face when he came. She wanted to be a memory he'd carry with him for the rest of his life.

And she wanted a chance to teach him to be good at it. She knew he would pay attention, she had a feeling he'd be very good at it, with a few pointers from her. The way he kissed like she was all that mattered was indication of that. Yes, she wanted to show him what to do with his fabulous hands, maybe even with his wickedly talented mouth.

"Tom?"

"Mmmh?"

His eyes were half closed and he was swaying slightly. He looked dazed and happy. Helen couldn't help but smile. Completely lost in the sensations, he was. Oh boy, she'd go to hell for this. But then again, she was purgatory-bound anyhow for all the things she'd already done when she had been Tom’s age.

"Tom, would you like to come back to my hotel with me?"

He nodded eagerly. Naturally, he would make sure she got to her hotel alright. It would not do to let her go there all by herself.

"Yes, of course, I'll walk you there. It's late and... a lady shouldn't walk alone this time of night!"

She chuckled. Spoken like a true gentleman.

"That's not exactly what I meant, Tom. I want to know if you would like to have another first time for your birthday. Understand?"

Tom was walking alongside Helen on legs that felt awkward, wobbly, wrong.  
He had only mutely nodded when she had clarified exactly what she had been offering. Now his entire body was behaving as if it had forgotten how to function properly.

On the bridge across the Thames, he had to stop. He turned to face the river, his hands gripping the railing hard for support.

"Need a moment," he managed to grind out.

Helen's hand was rubbing his back. He was so ridiculous. He seemed to have developed a full body stammer, or so it felt. His arms weren't cooperating, his legs were all over the place and he apparently couldn't draw enough air into his lungs. He had never been this... nervous... or excited... in his entire life.

"Tom, it's okay if you don't want to," Helen said gently. "I just thought maybe you did. But it's perfectly fine if you’re not ready for that just yet. I won't be mad at you, or think less of you or anything. Just tell me, please!"

"That's... that's not what it is. I want to. I want to so much that my brain has completely shut down and I think I have forgotten how to walk. I want it so much I can't breathe. I'm pathetic."

"You're not pathetic. You're sixteen, you're allowed to get a little overexcited at the thought of sex. It kind of comes with the territory. It's okay, Tom. How about we just stand here for a bit, side by side, until you've calmed down a little, hm?"

He nodded, gripping the railing even harder. Her hand continued to rub soothing circles on his back.  
Slowly, his breathing returned to normal. He eased his death grip on the railing and took a tentative step backwards. His body still felt like it had been put together the wrong way, but he thought he might manage the simple task of walking without falling over his own feet now.

"We can go now, Helen," he managed to whisper.

Finally, her hotel room.  
Tom stood in front of the bed, shrugging out of his warm jacket and kicking off his shoes at the same time. He paused to look at her, unsure what to do next.

"It always looks so hot in the movies, when two people tear each other's clothes off, right? Well, word to the wise, that can lead to very awkward situations, from getting stuck in shirts to the guy's pride and joy being caught in the zipper. Best if you take your clothes off by yourself before you engage in the infighting," Helen said with a smile, unbuttoning her blouse.

Tom slipped out of his suit jacket. The tie came off relatively easy, but those pesky little shirt buttons were giving him grief. He just wanted out of that damned thing. Finally, he managed. The trousers were gone in a second and suddenly, Tom wished he had chosen a different pair of underpants. His sisters had given him those, printed all over with flying pigs. He quickly slid between the sheets, trying to hide the piggies as much as his own awkward body.

Tom was staring straight ahead, thinking he ought to give Helen some privacy to undress, maybe. He could feel the mattress dip. Suddenly, Tom felt Helen's hand on his chest. He jumped a little. She was so close and … God, so naked. He swallowed hard, then tentatively put his hand on her hip, pulling her a little closer still. Their lips met and then her body was flush against his and his other hand found her breasts, gently exploring the softness.

He moaned. He never wanted to stop touching her. Not ever. He just wanted to stay there, in that bed with her and run his hands over her skin indefinitely.


	2. Chapter 2

\---

A bird was whistling in the tree next to the window of Helen's room, greeting a sunny morning. Helen smiled as she watched Tom walk down the street. She recalled a few lines from Bowie's Teenage Wildlife, so wonderfully apt.

 _Blue skies above and sun on your arms, strength in your stride_  
_And hope in those squeaky clean eyes_

She offered up a small, half-laughing prayer to whichever Gods might be willing to listen for this wonderful boy to grow into an equally wonderful man.

She would most certainly never forget him. He had been so eager to learn. He had kept his touches light, when he was uncertain about what to do. As soon as she had shown him what would please her, his deft hands repeated what she had shown him with ease and joy.

His body moved against hers so perfectly and with such perfect accord she could hardly believe he had never been with a woman before. He mirrored her unconsciously and his soft, breathy moans had excited her just as much as the surprising length and girth of him did.

She wished... but no, that could never be. She hadn't volunteered her last name, she hadn't told him where she lived. She had had that much of a grip on sanity left, after all. He had been sweet and fresh and new and that was all the appeal there was. No use interpreting something else into it.

She sighed and started to pack her things.  
It was okay like this. He would never forget her. One did not forget the first. And she would never forget him, either. The sweet boy with the lovely manners and a wicked streak a mile wide that probably not many people knew about.

\---

Tom half ran down the street towards school, smiling like a loon.  
He'd miss first period, but didn't really care. He felt marvellous. Helen had been so patient and kind. She had taught him how to touch a woman, what to look for and what to avoid. She had shown him more pleasure than he had thought possible. And she had made him feel like he was good at it – which he probably hadn’t been. He was so beyond happy.

And they had talked. Really talked. He had told her about wanting to become an actor and how afraid he was that his father would be opposed to that idea. He had told her about the books he loved and about the dreams he had. And she had listened, laughed, encouraged him and mock scolded him in turns.

She was wonderful. Soft in all the right places. And  smart. And funny. He wondered if it would always feel this great and if he would be this happy afterwards. His heart was beating faster whenever he thought of her and there was a curious half pain, half something else whenever he did think of her.

He wished he could see her again, but he knew it was impossible. She was a grown woman, with a job and all. She had no use for a teenager. He had tried to find a good way to ask for her address, a smart way, but he had come up blank. He would have loved to be able to keep talking to her somehow.

He turned into a small path to the side of the school and slipped through the secret hole in the hedge. He brushed off a few leaves and continued to walk on the school grounds, as if he had just come from his room. Nobody took any notice and he hadn't even been missed for first period. What a great day!

\---

Tom was having fun. A boys' night out, he hadn't had one of those in a long time. They had been clubbing all night and had ended up at his place in the small hours of the morning. His friends were sprawled on the sofa, the armchairs and the floor of his living room, enjoying a nightcap. Not that they hadn't all had plenty already. Tomorrow would definitely be a challenge, Tom thought with a chuckle. Ah, nope, today, it was today already.

"Hey, guys, I was wondering, do you remember your first time?" his friend Mike slurred. "Because mine was horrible!"

Laughs all around and calls of "serves you right". Everybody was shaking their heads, because Mike had a knack for turning something every other human being enjoyed, excelled at or simply breezed through without a glitch into some sort of minor catastrophe.

"What happened?" Ben asked.

"Man, it was horrid! She got some of my pecker stuck in the zipper of my pants somehow and I was bleeding like a stuck pig."

Stunned silence in the room, as everybody winced and silently gave their pride and joy a metaphorical pat on the head. You'll be alright, buddy.

Mike continued triumphantly: "Still nailed her, mind you."

Everybody was laughing uproariously and soon they were all sharing stories of their first times and of memorable catastrophes in the sack.

Tom kept out of this conversation, though.  
His first time had been so beyond special, he still didn't feel like sharing it with anybody. He smiled to himself, remembering just how magical it had been. Helen had taught him well, he thought. How to please a woman, how to avoid ugly accidents like that - he'd done very well indeed with her advice ever since.

It started to grow light outside and one by one, his friends left, until Tom was alone with Benedict.

"You kept unusually quiet when everyone was comparing first time notes," Ben said with a smile. "Not a good subject?"

"A very good subject, just not one I'm prepared to share with the world at large," Tom said, refilling both their glasses. Which, arguably, was probably not a great idea. And it just went to show how bad an idea it was that his mind had formed a sentence containing both arguably AND probably. Sloshed, he was.

"Her name was Helen, it was on my sixteenth birthday and I've loved her ever since," he said quietly, as he settled back on the sofa.

It had taken him a long time to put a name to his feelings. A long time in which he had tried to pretend he hadn't found the love of his life at the ripe old age of sixteen. And immediately had lost her.

"Oh?"

"In fact, I think she might have been THE ONE. But I was sixteen and she was twenty-one and by the time I realised that what I felt was neither afterglow nor puppy love, she was gone. And I had no clue how to find her."

"That sucks," Ben said sincerely, taking a sip of whisky.

Tom laughed mirthlessly. "That's the understatement to end all understatements. I've never felt like this for anyone again. Not even remotely. She's out there somewhere, God knows where and I... I can't find her and I can't forget her and I..."

He broke off, ran his hand over his face and took a deep breath.

"Sorry, Ben, I'm drunk and I'm pathetic. Forget I said that. I think I need to go sleep it off. Can I please kick you out now?"

Ben looked at him a tad strangely, but replied that it was alright and then got up and left without further ado.

Tom didn’t go to bed immediately, knowing there would be no rest for him, anyhow. So he proceeded to drink himself into a coma and the next day was not a challenge, but a downright catastrophe. Good thing it was his day off.

\---

The following Saturday, Tom took a peek at the audience, as usual. Full house, as usual.  
Suddenly his heart lurched in his chest. Couldn't be. No way. After all those years?  
The woman was sitting in the front row, a little to the side. She wore black pants and a white, silky shirt. And she looked like Helen.

How long had it been? Seventeen years? And yet he recalled every detail of her face and her body. Heat flooded where it had no business to be, this close to the start of the performance.

One of the spotlights was moved and caught her directly, revealing the tattoos beneath the white blouse and illuminating her face. It was her alright. Tom swallowed hard.  
It would be a tough performance tonight.

Helen stood with the rest of the house. Applause was rushing around her in big, almost tangible waves. What a stunning performance.

His voice had washed over her, hot and cold, sensual, commanding and utterly beautiful. Yes, a stunning performance by a master of his trade.  
Her eyes had never left him, not for a second during the entire length of the play.

He was standing there now, breathing heavily with exhaustion, covered in artificial gore, triumph in his eyes. He was taking his bows with the entire cast, proud of their joint effort.

He had come a long way from the awkward, gangly boy in the Eton suit.  
She was smiling and crying at the same time. Talk about someone fully realising his potential! And to think this gorgeous, vastly talented man had been hers for that one magical night...

She turned to leave when the stage had gone dark again. As she walked out into the cold night, she wondered if he remembered her at all. If he would recognise her, if he saw her. On impulse, she followed a group of giggling girls around the corner. The stage door. Should she wait for him here? See what would happen?

She leaned against the cold wall, uncertain what to do. How awful would it be, if he didn't recognise her? Or worse, if he did, but very clearly didn't want to see her?  
No, this wasn't a good idea. She very quickly walked past the stage door and the still giggling, overexcited women.  
Helen turned right behind the theatre, relishing the quiet in the dark the alley.

Suddenly, that sinful voice filled the night behind her.

"Beyond imagination's power,  
Beyond the Bard's defeated art,  
With immortality her dower,  
Behold the Helen of the heart!"          

Helen turned. He was standing in the shadows of the alley.

"You said sometimes quotes were allowed. And I know for a fact you like Byron, darling."  

He started to walk towards her. When he passed into the light, she could see he was smiling.  
There was still some artificial blood on his face. It looked as if he had just hastily rubbed it off and thrown a coat over his costume. He stopped a few feet away from her, his smile slowly fading.

"Helen, could you.... could you please say something?" Tom's voice had gone soft and uncertain. He sounded hauntingly like his sixteen year old self.   

"Hello, Tom. Congratulations, that was a wonderful performance!" Helen said, trying to keep her tone light.

He looked at her helplessly. Did she even know it was him? Why had she come? Just to see Tom Hiddleston, up and coming actor, or to see Tom, the boy she had taught about making love all those years ago?

He had rushed outside, barely stopping to wipe his face, driven by the mad hope of maybe finding her in the street, stopping her... holding her again. When he had seen her walking past the hidden exit at the back of the Donmar, he couldn't believe his luck. But now he just didn't know what to do.

She was looking at him intently.  
He was absolutely gorgeous, she thought and surprised herself by moving closer. Don't be stupid, Helen, just don't. But her body had a different agenda, apparently. Her hand rose to rub some of the gore off his temple.    

“I… I'm sorry, I should have cleaned myself up, but I was so anxious to catch you, I just ran out,” Tom said softly, leaning into the touch of her hand.

“Look at you,” Helen whispered, “all grown up.”

Her fingers moved out of their own volition, downwards, caressing his cheekbone. Sharper now, more pronounced. The stubble felt weird, new, foreign. His lips, however, were very familiar when he suddenly leaned forwards and kissed her.

Her body effortlessly fit against his, as perfectly as their lips fit together.

And nothing else mattered.   


End file.
